Chapter 13 - The Leather Gloves
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At the front door, the final act of our marriage played out in agonizing slow motion. The black town car Julian had ordered for the airport was idling in our snowy driveway, exhaust pluming in the freezing morning air.
Julian kissed Harrison’s cheek, lingering for a moment to ensure I saw how difficult it was for him to leave. Then, he stood up and turned to me. He placed his hands gently on my shoulders and leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“I am so sorry for leaving you to handle Christmas all by yourself, Claire,” Julian murmured, his breath smelling of mint and lies. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise. I’ll call you the second I get to the hotel in Tokyo.”
“Okay,” I said, my face a mask of stone.
He turned to grab his heavy duffel bag, but paused, patting his pockets with a frustrated sigh. “Damn it, I forgot my gloves.”
I reached onto the entryway table and picked up the expensive, fur-lined leather gloves I knew he would need for the freezing Aspen weather. I held them out to him.
Our fingers brushed as he took them.
“Thank you,” he smiled, slipping them into his coat pocket.
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“Safe trip, Julian,” I said softly.
I didn't scream. I didn't throw his bags into the snow. I simply said goodbye, because there was absolutely nothing left I needed him to confess, and no apology in the world could alter the trajectory of the next hour. He walked out the door, climbed into the back of the town car, and drove away, fully believing his obedient wife and adoring son would still be waiting in this house when he returned eight days later.
